


5 Things That Changed Between Them And One Thing That Didn't

by ancestrallizard



Category: Shin Megami Tensei Series, 真女神転生IV | Shin Megami Tensei IV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Relationship, some slight suicidal ideation at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8143990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancestrallizard/pseuds/ancestrallizard
Summary: A look at the relationship between Flynn and Issachar if Issachar was a recruitable demon, using the 5+1 fic format.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My demon-Issachar AU

Issachar realized immediately that he had made a terrible mistake.

 

At the time, it felt like the most logical, satisfying choice to make. He’d been so angry and frustrated, at the unfairness of their world and at his own powerlessness, that when the Black Samurai approached him and offered him the power to change the world, he said yes without question. Before he knew it his hands were blunted claws, his village was on fire, and the Black Samurai was nowhere to be seen. He’d blundered into forest looked for her, to beg her to help his home, change him back into a human, to do something, anything. He found no one except one of the survivors from the village, a man with badly singed clothes, who screamed and ran the second he saw Issachar. And why shouldn’t he? Issachar was a monster now, damned by one terrible shortsighted choice. Finally, exhausted and hopeless after running in circles, he collapsed beneath a broken dead tree. Flynn and the other Prentices found him alone in the forest, weeping into his hands like a child. Issachar had looked up to see his old friend, and instead of fighting, begged Flynn to kill him.

 

He hadn’t known how Flynn would react, hadn’t even known whether he truly wanted to die or not. Whatever he’d expected or hoped, it hadn’t been for Flynn to lay his sword on the forest floor and slowly approach him. Issachar had edged away and snarled on a new instinct he didn’t know what to do with, pain and rage and fear ensnaring his mind and making it hard to think. The other Prentices shouted for him to get back, to stay away from him. Issachar barely heard them through the blood roaring in his ears and the deep growl that tore from his throat. Flynn was scarcely a yard away before Issachar lunged and, faster than he though he could move, struck Flynn hard across the face and leapt away again. Flynn hadn’t lifted a finger to defend himself and was knocked to the ground by the blow. Issachar stared at his fallen friend in horror and a strange bones-deep satisfaction that made him want to be sick. One of the Prentices, the only other Casualry, took a step forward, hand on his sword hilt, but Flynn stopped him with a glance. 

 

He lifted his gaze to meet Issachar’s as he stood. He didn’t react to the gash that Issachar’s claws had left on his cheek or the blood that began to seep from the wound like tears. Again, Flynn stepped forward, unarmed and defenseless. _Issachar, I won’t hurt you,_ he’d said. Flynn offered his hand with the gauntlet (The gauntlet that should have been his) as if inviting a handshake. He edged even closer. (Flynn’s eyes were so much sharper than before, the green of his irises shone like stained glass.) _Let me help you._

 

Issachar stayed stock-still, hands curled into fists at his side. The blood on them was warm. He wanted more than anything to fight Flynn, to kill him for having the gall to get this close, and it took all of his willpower not to attack him again. Paired with his anger was loneliness, the same loneliness that had first eviscerated him the day of the gauntlet rite when he retuned home alone. He’d felt like he was being eaten alive by it, even before Black Samurai had appeared with their books. He’d give anything not to feel like that anymore. Flynn couldn’t fix it (Issachar felt too much pain and sadness just from looking at him) but maybe he could help, at least a little bit. Maybe Issachar didn’t have to be alone.

 

He almost felt the collective intake of breath from the other Prentices as he raised his hand toward Flynn. Issachar hesitated for a breath, then bridged the distance between them and grasped Flynn’s hand like a lifeline.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

After he became Flynn’s demon, time slowed down long enough for Issachar to take stock of how much he’d changed. Becoming a demon was like suffering the changes from childhood to adulthood all over again, but a thousand times worse. Once again he felt like he’d woken up in a body that belonged to a stranger. The most uncomfortable changes by far came from his senses. They were all heightened past what he’d ever though possible; the weak sunlight that broke through the trees burned his eyes, and the sounds of leaves and sticks breaking underfoot crashed like thunderclaps in his ears. His tunic felt unbearable itchy, so much so that, if not for presence of lady he would have torn it off and left it on the roadside. His sense of smell alone overwhelmed him. It felt like he could smell every individual animal and demon and human for miles around. 

 

Flynn asked Issachar before they all broke clear of the forest that he wait in his gauntlet until it was safe for him to come out again, to avoid other samurai or monks knowing about him, and Issachar was more than happy to oblige. The disorientation of being stored as pure magic aside, it was not uncomfortable in the gauntlet, and the quiet was a balm to his over-stimulated senses. He Felt Flynn’s other demons there too, on the edges of consciousness, but they didn’t talk to him so he didn’t talk to them. It made him feel calm, almost sleepy. He imagined it must be similar to what hunting falcon felt when its hood was put on. He stayed in the gauntlet until he was summoned in a flash of light into an echoing stone labyrinth that could only be Naraku. 

 

It looked just as labyrinthian and dangerous as he’d always imagined. Issachar had dreamed of entering the legendary dungeon alongside Flynn one day, to fight demons together, but never like this. Flynn filled him in on the situation as they descended through the stratums. They had been tasked to hunt down the Black Samurai and had special permission to go further down than they could before. They had to bring black samurai for execution, but Flynn wanted to try to talk to her before they took her in, find out if she knew anyway to make Issachar human again. Flynn and Issachar walked at the head of their little group while the other three Prentices trailed behind. Issachar knew it was so the others could keep an eye on him, but he didn’t care. The darkness of Naraku felt good, secure in a way that the outside world didn’t anymore. His senses weren’t overwhelmed in the relative quiet of the caves, either, so he felt almost normal. Issachar could feel demons watching them from behind doors and corners, but none made any move to attack Walking alongside Flynn, he could almost believe they were just hunting in the forest back home, same as always.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Their journey was forcefully halted by the appearance of the Minotaur past a massive door in the fifth stratum. It wasted little time before attacking the intruders.

 

The creature was the most powerful demon Issachar had ever seen, as massive and immovable as a mountain with a strike that felt like the sky falling. They fought for what felt like hours, surrounding the monster and wearing it down while avoiding any of its deadly attacks. Finally the plan paid off; spent, the beast collapsed, and one final Zio spell served as the deathblow, burning the demon to ashes. It was a hard won victory. The Prentices were on their last legs, most of their demons had been recalled and were in no condition to fight, and all of them were exhausted. Issachar was worn down as well. His side radiated a dull pain from a glancing blow struck by one of the beast’s horns from when it sunk to all fours and charged them like the bull it resembled. 

 

Even with Issachar’s exhaustion, however, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive. His body sang with an energy he’d never known before, the feeling that came from meeting and exceeding its most basic purpose. He had fought a much stronger demon, and now he was alive and it was dead, and he wanted to shout it to the entire world. He bounced on the balls of feet, grinning for the first time in what felt like forever. 

 

His excitement died when he turned to see Flynn lying prone on the cavern floor, struggling to get up. The Minotaur’s charge had hit him too. Issachar raced over and offered him a hand, but Flynn ignored the offer, getting up to his feet by himself. Issachar noticed the cut from when he’d attacked Flynn in the woods still had not healed; the wound was still an inflamed, angry red and had not scabbed over. Flynn’s face spasmed in pain as he tried to put weight on his injured leg. Issachar stepped forward to help him, but Flynn stumbled back. “I’m fine,” he rasped, “I can stand by myself.”

 

They’d never had any problems with casual contact before. He and Flynn had always been comfortable with each other, had been glued by the hip practically since they could walk. They’d pushed and wrestled each other when they played in the woods, held hands when they walked, sat side by side at meals, even slept in same bed when nights were cold. It served a practical purpose as well. A sickness from when Flynn was very young badly damaged his voice. He recovered, mostly, but speaking could still cause him pain; there were times when a hand on his shoulder or traced letters into his palm could communicate more easier than Flynn’s croaking voice. The two lived like they were extensions of each other; their closeness was as natural and as vital as breathing. As they grew into adulthood they spent more and more time apart, with Issachar practicing to become a trapper like his parents and Flynn spending more time in his uncle’s forge to begin his education as a smith, but whenever they did find the time to meet, the years melted away and they became as close as when they were children. Their closeness did garner some looks from others in the village as they grew older, but Issachar never acknowledged them. As long as Flynn didn’t mind he wouldn’t pull away. Their bond was a fact of life, and Issachar wouldn’t change it for anything. 

 

Except maybe it was not so permanent as he once thought. Issachar backed away and watched from a distance as Flynn healed the rest of his demons and then himself, something raw burning in his chest that he couldn’t put a name to. One of the Prentices, Jonathan, offered to heal him after he was done healing his own demons, but Issachar said that No, he was fine. It wasn’t entirely a lie. That hit from the Minotaur would have shattered his ribs if he was human, but instead it felt like a light bruise he could walk off. He wondered how much it would take to actually hurt him now.

 

When everyone was healed and ready, they set out past the threshold of the massive door. Issachar took up his position again at the head of group beside Flynn, but kept a greater distance between them than before. 

 

As Issachar scanned the passageways for approaching demons, he felt a prickling sensation on his right palm. Looked at it, saw not a scrape from the fight but a small patch of granite black skin in the center of his hand. He prodded it cautiously. It was smooth and pliant like leather, and he felt a dull pain when he prodded it hard enough. So it was a part of him. He almost called out to Flynn, to show him whatever this was, but he bit it back. Flynn didn’t need to know. He went on ahead silently, descending further and further into the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

They reached a settlement of the Unclean Ones about a day after leaving Tokyo Tower. Or at least, it felt like a day. Issachar wasn’t sure. There was no sunlight in this new world. The only illumination burned from harsh blue lights attached to the monolith buildings that surrounded them like tombstones. If not for Burroughs it would be impossible to keep of how much time passed.

 

They needed food and rest and, most importantly, information, about the Black Samurai and the new world they found themselves in. The streets were nearly abandoned save for roaming demons itching to fight. Flynn called over the first two humans they saw, warrior women in strange dress who regarded them suspiciously, and asked them for help.

 

It worked, to an extent. The strangers were more than happy to help, once they showed they were not going to attack and only wanted directions, but the problem came down to communication. The two spoke the same language as the one in Mikado, but just barely. The Unclean Ones spoke with a very heavy accent, distorting some of their words to be unrecognizable, while some of their words words didn’t sound like they had any root or equivalent in the tongue of Mikado. Likewise, some terms from their own language netted looks of incomprehension on the women’s faces. 

After a lot of repeated phrases and miming between the groups, they got directions to a place where they could get their much-needed supplies. They followed the directions and found their way to an underground station. Issachar could have found it with his eyes closed; he could smell a vast number of people somewhere underground even before they were within sight of the building. He smelled something else too, an electric and metallic scent that the made the hairs on the nape of neck stand up. 

 

They almost entered the underground before Isabeau stopped them. 

 

“Wait a moment,” she said, and pointed to the top of the doorway. “What is that?” Issachar could see a symbol carved into it, a square with a circle inside it, and several smaller circles nested within that. Three small thin rectangles stretched down from the square one like roots. Something about the shape of the carving looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t for the life of him say what it reminded him of or why.

 

"I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like.” Jonathan said. “Maybe it’s a local greeting?” 

 

“No, I don’t think so,” Walter disagreed, “I think I’ve seen it before, or something like it, and I’m pretty sure that’s not it.” 

 

Issachar saw Flynn in his periphery type something into his gauntlet. “It appears to be a protective symbol, master,” The Burroughs in Flynn’s gauntlet said.

 

“That’s where I remember it from! There was a symbol like it in my home’s entryway!” Walter suddenly interrupted.

 

“Yes,” Burroughs continued, “The symbol from Mikado serves as protection from demons and malignant forces. This and the symbol in Mikado appear to have been derived from the same source.”

 

That was where he’d seen it before. The protective symbol in Casualry villages was a stylized hand with an eye in its palm. It’d been carved into amulets, into charms wore on belts and purse strings, and etched into a few front doors. He could see now, the shape in the station doorway did look at least a bit like the outline of a hand and fingers.

 

Burroughs went on. “I theorize that the sigil is here to keep demons from entering the underground, and as such has much more magic layered into it than the ones in Mikado. I don’t what would exactly happen if a demon or partial-demon were to cross it, but I can safely assume it would not be good.” Three Prentices turned to look at him, and he felt Flynn look at him too. Issachar’s ears burned in embarrassment and he hoped they still didn’t turn red like they used too. “I’ll stay out here then.” He said. He almost smiled, to try to put them at ease, but remembered how sharp his teeth were now, and held back. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyway.”

 

The others went below, with Flynn being the last to go. He looked back at Issachar, and Issachar couldn’t stand to see so much sadness in his eyes. “It’s alright. I’m fine out here, I was getting sick of waiting in the gauntlet anyway.” 

 

He’d meant it to be reassuring, but Flynn’s face fell even more. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and went down to join the other Prentices.  
Issachar was not overly worried about demons, but he didn’t feel entirely safe standing out in the open, either. He found the carcass of a building across from the underground entrance to hide in. He hoped to find more books, or anything else from the unclean ones he could examine, but if anything had been there, it had been cleared out long ago. There was nothing inside but dust and gravel from a partially collapsed roof.

 

Of all the books the Black Samurai had brought to them, the ones called nonfiction had been his favorite, especially the ones with pictures. He loved to see paintings of intricate towers and homes and thousands of strangely dressed people living in and around them. Reality was markedly difference from books. All the buildings he’d seen seen on journey so far were badly in need of repair, not to mention the ones had fallen apart entirely like abandoned churches. The air felt wrong too, thick and poisonous and almost clammy on his skin.

 

He scratched his arm idly. Another patch of tough, discolored skin, the same as on his palm, was on his upper arm now. Neither patch hurt, but both itched like mad, and were starting to look like some kind of reptile hide. It didn’t show any signs of going away. Again Issachar thought to tell Flynn, and again he decided not to. He could solve this on his own. With all the humans and demons in this new world, Issachar was bound to find someone who knew what was happening to him if he looked hard enough.

 

Issachar smelled something new on the wind suddenly, something familiar. He peeked out from hiding place and saw Flynn standing in the street, looking around and holding something.

 

Issachar ran to him, more than a little bit panicked. “Did something happen? Are you alright?”

 

Flynn shook his head. “No, no, I’m fine. We’re all fine,” he said. “I bought rations, and I had enough money for some extra food.” Issachar saw what Flynn was carrying now, small box made of flimsy cardboard. A strange warm smell emanated from it. “I, um. I wanted to eat with you.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitched and Issachar clamped down on his reaction before he smiled outright. He took Flynn back to the shell of a building he found. They sat, and Flynn handed him the box of food. Issachar examined it while Flynn looked up through the hole in the roof. 

 

He was not surprised by the one box of food and the unspoken assumption that they would share it. Sharing food was second nature to them. It had first started when plague swept through their land, the same plague that took Flynn’s voice as a child. Flynn and his entire family were stricken with illness, but for whatever reason Issachar and his family did not. He stayed with Issachar’s family as he recovered, as he didn’t have anyone else to take care of him. He remembered trying to coax his friend to take sips of weak broth after own his father tried and failed to convince him to eat. He never got more than few sips down. Flynn recovered, slowly, and when he was able ate with Issachar and his family. They shared a plate, as there weren’t any extra, and Issachar watched his friend like a hawk to make sure wouldn’t get sick and faint again like he had a few times already. Even after Flynn fully recovered, or was as recovered as he would ever be, and went to live with his uncle, they shared food with each other, fruits and candies and whatever good food they had, past childhood and into adulthood.

 

The box held rice and some kind of meat, maybe chicken. It didn’t smell good at all, but Flynn wouldn’t give him something foul on purpose as a joke. He would at least try it.

 

Issachar took a bite, and spit it out immediately. It was both sour and ashy, and made his mouth taste unspeakably foul. “God’s bones, Flynn, what is this?!”

 

Flynn took the strange food from him and took a bite, then shrugged. “It tastes fine to me.” He took out some of the rations he’d bought so Issachar could try them, vegetables, cured meat, and shriveled looking fruit. Flynn tried the food before Issachar did, and every times said they tasted fine, but when Issachar tried them, he spat them out in revulsion. They were as bad as the meat and rice, and the fruit especially tasted rotten.

 

“I’m sorry.” Flynn said quietly. He was biting his lip like he always did when he got worried. “The shop has more food, I can go back and try to find something else-“

 

“Don’t bother.” Issachar growled. He knew why he couldn’t eat the food, and Flynn did too even if he was trying to ignore it. It was human food. Issachar wasn’t human. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

 

Soon enough the others came back, and they went on their way again. Whenever they found pockets of humanity in the ruined city to resupply in, Flynn would find new food for Issachar to try. But Issachar outright refused to try any of them, and eventually Flynn stopped asking. Macca alone was enough to keep him alive and whole; He probably didn’t need food at all. The hunger he felt eventually faded into a dull ache at the back of his mind. As long as he didn’t think about it, it was like it wasn’t there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts here is that demons can't eat human food the way it's prepared. Even if the meat is demon meat, people would have treated it in a way to make it edible, but as a result demons can't stand it.


	3. Chapter 3

Of all he’d seen so far of the world under their own, the strangest and worst parts of it to him were the deserts that pocketed the landscape like a pox. The miles of lifeless sand stretching into the dark were the exact opposite of the forests he spent so much time in. Mikado had no equivalent; There were arid, stretching grasslands where crops couldn’t grown, but even these always had some plant or animal life to be found, even if it was just small clinging shrubs and minuscule insects. They’d had no reason to enter the desert since leaving the tower that had brought them here, and if Issachar could have his way he would never set foot in any of them. It stood to reason, then, that walking toward the desert bordering Ueno, with the full intention of entering it, was the absolute last thing he wanted to.

 

It was just Issachar and Flynn making the journey. They had split off from the others shortly after leaving the underground town in Ueno. It had been Flynn’s idea, that splitting up would let them cover more ground in looking for the Black Samurai. He and Issachar would search the desert close to Ueno, and Isabeau, Jonathan, and Walter would look in the more populated parts of the Ueno district. They would keep in contact via their gauntlets, and would all meet back in town if neither group could find anything. The three might have acquiesced to Flynn’s plan from surprise more than anything; this was the most he’d spoken to his fellows since meeting them. Issachar had stared at how Flynn’s hand worried the hem of his jacket as he explained his plan to the others, and said nothing.

 

The desert wasn’t too far away from Ueno, but it was almost completely surrounded by gargantuan boulders and collapsed buildings, meaning there was no straight way to get there. As they circled the buildings and rocks looking for a safe way though, Issachar asked Flynn if they were really there to look for the Black Samurai.

 

Flynn took a long time to answer. He fiddled the sleeve of his new jacket, pulling at the loose hem. He’d gotten new clothes in town to blend in more with the local people, loose pants with many pockets, a faded and frayed jacket, and a bright yellow scarf he wore around the lower half of his face. He’d expected Flynn to look ridiculous in the strange clothes, but was surprised to find that it was not the case. The clothes were worn and patched and had obviously been through several owners already, but Flynn fit them like they were made for him. They were altogether more distracting than new clothes should have been.

 

“I did hear a rumor of the Black Samurai hiding near the desert,” he began slowly without looking at Issachar. “But there’s another reason I want to go there. I was asking around in Ueno, if anyone knew anything about humans turning into demons. A few people said a scholar lived out in the desert who might know something.” He glanced back at Issachar, an apologetic look on his face. “They said the desert was dangerous too, there’re supposed to be a lot of demons out there.” 

 

Issachar was frustrated with Flynn, though not for the reason Flynn seemed to think. “So you lied to them?” His words came out colder than he’d meant them to. Flynn flinched slightly, but said nothing else.

 

He’d fought plenty of demons on their quest already. He could handle a few more. No, what really bothered him, what he dwelled on as they got closer and closer to a way into the desert, was Flynn jeopardizing his bonds with his teammates. Issachar’s presence with the Prentices and being kept an unspoken secret from their superiors strained Flynn’s relationship with them enough; outright lying to them and abandoning his mission, even temporarily, could stretch it to the breaking point. He needed those connections, especially in a place such as this, and Issachar didn’t know how to feel about Flynn risking three strong, competent allies just for him. This was a harsh world to be alone in.

 

Still, the glimmer of hope that they could find someone to heal him hastened his steps, just a bit.

 

They ran into a few demons on the way, but Flynn stopped any fights from breaking out, talking to the demons before any counters could escalate. Most of them ran away, but he managed to recruit two, a Poltergeist and a Kabuso. Issachar wished at least one of the demons tried to fight them. Being so close to the desert made his skin crawl, especially the leathery skin on his arms. Maybe fighting would have burned away some of the nervous energy that sat in his gut like a stomachache.

 

As they went on around the desert’s perimeter they ran into fewer and fewer demons; by the time they found a gap to pass through, a treacherous looking arch made from the empty shells of two massive buildings propping each other up, they had seen no demons for at least an hour.

 

Flynn called out for him to wait just as they crossed under the arch, and picked up something that was half-buried in the sand. He held it out to Issachar to show him, too. It looked like a human skull, and a strange one at that. The top of the skull was gone for one, in a manner that looked too neat to be caused by tooth or claw. For another, symbols wee carved into the cheekbones and the bridge of bone between the eyes.

 

Issachar felt a chill, and looked up. A Harpy was flying above them, circling like a vulture. As if it felt his eyes on it, the creature took off toward the center of the desert and the cliffs beyond.

 

The desert was extremely dark, with only the ambient light of the city around them providing any illumination. Issachar’s demon eyes let him see in the low light, but he saw Flynn stumble and almost fall a few times because of the changing sands. He never made a move to help him. 

 

They set up camp for the night outside the top of a massive building that sat in the sands like a rotten tree stump, the rest of its body buried in the dunes, and started a fire with brittle scraps of furniture they found inside.

 

Flynn took the first watch. Issachar slept outside the gauntlet in case anything tried to attack while the rested. He looked at Flynn from across the fire. Flynn didn’t notice, starring deep into the heart of the flames. The reflection of the fire danced hypnotically in his pupils. The shadows cast on his face by the fire and the bags under his eyes made him look like he’d aged ten years in he span of a few days.

 

Issachar’s sleep was deep and dreamless. It felt like he had only closed his eyes for a moment before Flynn shook him awake to keep watch.

 

The long march they’d made and the dead silence combined to make an irresistible sedative. His eyelids grew heavy, until he closed them, just for a quick rest while the night was quiet.

 

When Issachar opened his eyes, he was human.

 

He was in his bed, in his family’s house. Moonlight streamed weakly through the window. He could hear someone crying. Flynn.

 

This was a sadly common occurrence in the time between Flynn’s recovery and when he went to live with his uncle. He and his uncle had bee very fortunate to survive the plague that ravaged their village and its neighbors. Many people didn’t and Flynn’s parents had been among those lost. He remembered an ashen-faced neighbor coming to their house late one night to tell Flynn what happened, how the sickness had felled both his parents almost simultaneously. Flynn was stone faced during the day after that, but he cried at night, quiet, pitiful wheezing from exhausted lungs that Issachar wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t sleeping in the same room. He would wake Flynn up, if he wasn’t awake already, and try to help him back to sleep. Sometimes they would talk in hushed whispers, or Issachar would hold him, as if his child’s arms could force the pieces of a broken heart back together. Sometimes it worked, and Flynn sunk back down into a sporadic, fitful sleep. Other times, he couldn’t, and the both of them would stay up till dawn first peaked through the window and Issachar had to leave to do chores.

 

He stumbled out of bed. The moon moved behind a cloud, plunging the whole room into darkness. _Flynn?_ He called out. He could hear him, why couldn’t he see him.

 

_Issachar?_

 

He twisted around, and there was Flynn, his face hidden by shadow. He reached for him, but Flynn stepped back. He could still hear crying, but not from the shape in front of him; it came from all around, translucent echoes that rang from all corners of the room. He stepped forward, and Flynn stepped back again, and was illuminated by a cold patch of moonlight. His eyes were accusing, almost hateful. The scar on his face, the scar Issachar had given him, was bleeding again. Issachar’s hand burned all of a sudden, and looked down to see that he had blood on his claws.

 

He tried to speak, to ask what was going on, but his mouth and throat were paralyzed. Flynn closed his eyes and crumpled to the ground. Issachar ran forward and caught him before he hit the floor. Flynn?! He searched in the dim light for any sign of injury. His hand felt wet, and he pulled it away to find it covered in blood.

 

Everything became brighter and brighter, so bright it burned his eyes. They were outside in the village square, and their home was burning to the ground. Flames roared around them like a hundred thousand demons, and smoke and ash clotted the sky. Flames licked at their clothing, but Issachar barely noticed, all of his attention held by the body in his arms. Flynn’s face was ripped to shreds, his clothes soaked through with blood, and Issachar knew that he had done this to him. He begged his friend to wake up, please wake up, please be okay, even as he knew here would be no answer.

 

Something entered his peripheral vision. He looked up to see the Black Samurai in front of him, seemingly unconcerned with the fire that blazed all around them. _You!_ He shouted, _Why did you do this to us?! Why did you do this to me?!_

 

The Black Samurai said nothing. She rose into the air as if pulled on strings. Horror rooted Issachar to the ground as the Black Samurai’s body twisted and broke into impossible shapes, until they finally unfolded into a monster made of eyes and horns and an impossibly dislocated jaw. The thing dived toward them and screamed.

 

Issachar woke with a shout, as suddenly as if he’d been pushed into an ice-cold lake. He grounded himself in reality by taking stock of their camp as he waited for his racing heartbeat to slow down. The fire was ash now, and the desert was as undisturbed as it was when he first took watch; no new footprints marred the sand. Flynn was where he was before, on his side facing away from the fire, his clothes whole and unbloodied. Something about the rigidness of Flynn’s shoulders and the sound of his breathing made him almost certain that Flynn was awake. He waited, and wondered if Flynn would face him and say anything, or if he should say something first. But Flynn didn’t move, so Issachar didn’t either. They lay there in a silence unbroken except by the lonely desert wind, until it was time to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I made this up as I went yet?


	4. Chapter 4

If Issachar never saw another grain of sand in his life it would be too soon.

 

The desert seemed to stretch of forever. After hours of searching they were still no closer to finding the supposed scholar, and it was hard to believe he was even in the desert at all; There was no life apart from themselves, no features in the landscape except for the fragments of buildings strewn about like puzzle pieces. Issachar would periodically run ahead of Flynn to check any cave or building that could have been hiding something, but he never found anyone or anything of note. His new endurance ensured that he didn’t feel any fatigue, but the tedium interspersed with disappointments set his teeth on edge.

 

“Shouldn’t we have reached this person by now?” he muttered under his breath after once again finding nothing in an empty stone building but dust and rubble. He didn’t mean it as a question, but Flynn, who was scanning the horizon, answered anyway.

 

“He lives in a house in the center of the desert.” He said without looking at Issachar. “We aren’t at the center yet. We’ll find him.”

 

His voice was irritatingly measured. Issachar kicked at a stray rock as he walked back to him, irritation flaring hot and sharp beneath his skin. How can you possibly know if he’s really out here or not? Was on the tip of his tongue, but before he could say anything a tremor shook the ground, making him stagger. He saw a look of alarm on Flynn’s face that mirrored his own. What was that?

 

The earth shook again, hard, and a massive shape exploded out of the sand in front of hem like a fish breaching the surface of lake, showering them both in pebbles and grit. The thing towered over the two, at least half as tall again as the Minotaur they’d fought in Naraku. It was like nothing Issachar had ever seen before, even since he’d come to the land of the Unclean Ones, a draconic monster with a body and neck like a serpent and a head like a toad’s, with gaping jaws that flashed rows of teeth like swords. The forelegs that supported its upper body were as thick around as tree trunks, and it had no apparent hind legs; the rest of its body stretched on into scaled coils of sheer muscle. Sand streamed off its head and neck like water, flowing around its scales and horns and wide empty eyes. The green-yellow fins that framed its face flared as it let out an ear-shattering roar.

 

Issachar snarled and shot forward, barely hearing the shout of “Wait-!” from Flynn. His world tinted red and narrowed down to the beast before him. The demon’s forelegs supported its body while the neck and head reared back, exposing its soft underbelly. If he got close enough fast enough he could tear a mortal blow with his claws and teeth.

 

He didn’t check to see if Flynn had followed him. He remembered how they’d fought together before, against other children in village and on one terrifying night against bandits who tried to attack them walking home from a holiday festival; He’d charge in first and Flynn would follow to guard his flank.

 

He was almost close enough. Issachar prepared to leap the remaining distance to tear through its skin, rip it open like paper –

 

Something slammed into his side and knocked him face first to the desert floor where a heavy weight, the demon’s foot, pinned him down. He saw the beast’s tail from the corner of his eye, furling and unfurling like a living whip. The tail had knocked him down. Why hadn’t Flynn protected him, or at least warned him?

 

The demon pressed down. Sand grit painfully into his closed eyes and he felt sand go up his nostrils. He would suffocate before the creature even thought to tear into him with its teeth. He scrabbled at the coarse sand in a panic as his lungs started to burn, but it was no use; trying to dislodge the thing was like trying to push down a brick wall with his bare hands.

 

Just as he was on the verge of unconsciousness, the creature roared again and lifted its foot. Issachar took in a huge gulp of air and scrambled out from under the beast, just in time to see the Kabuso Flynn recruited fire another Zan spell at its eyes. Flynn’s poltergeist was out as well, flying around the demon to distract it. Flynn had kept his distance and directed them from where he stood when the best first emerged.

 

“Run!” Flynn shouted at him. Issachar saw the beast snap up Kabuso in its teeth, heard the cat spirit yowl in pain as the jaws came together and it disintegrated and retreated to Flynn’s gauntlet. Not a second later the Poltergeist met the same fate at the end of the demon’s whip like tail “Issachar, run!”

 

He ran. The two dashed across the dunes while the monster was still reeling from the magic in its eyes. The earth shuddered as it burrowed back down into the sand, but Issachar didn’t stop to look. Even half strangled he felt strangely energized, and it took a marked effort to not outrun Flynn.

 

Finally they stopped. Flynn gasped for breath while Issachar scrubbed the grit from his eyes and searched for any sign that the demon had followed them. He couldn’t see it anywhere, or feel its vibrations in the ground; the monster had vanished without a trace like a ghost at sunrise.

 

Flynn was still struggling to breathe. Shortness of breath was unfortunately normal for him ever since his sickness, but Issachar hadn’t seen it this bad in a long time. He reached out to him, but pulled back when Flynn looked up with a thunderous expression on his face. “What were-“ he stopped, and coughed again. “What were you thinking?” His voice was barely a croak, but Issachar still had to stop himself from flinching at the raw anger there.

 

“I was trying to catch it by surprise,” He said, and met Flynn’s gaze head on. “It would have worked, too, if you’d backed me up.” Like you were supposed to, he thinks. Like you always have.

 

“You can’t just rush a demon you know nothing about!” Flynn said. “I checked the gauntlet before you rushed in, that thing was too powerful for us to defeat. Especially not by charging in blindly.” He breathed deeply and slowly, to calm himself as well as to head off another coughing fit. “If you could have attacked it with magic, maybe we could have, but you can’t.” Issachar looked away at that. He’d always been useless with magic, barely able to cast basic defensive spells when he was human, never mind offensive magic. Of all the new abilities becoming a demon had given him, an increased magical aptitude had not been one of them.

 

Undeterred, Issachar met his gaze again. “Well, I don’t have magic, but you do. If you stayed and fought, we could have won –“

 

“At what price? My demons are down and I don’t have anything to revive them with!” His voice was beginning to warp ad crack, but he kept going. “How could you think we could fight that thing and come out unscathed? You’re smarter than that!”

 

“But-“ Issachar wanted to keep arguing the point, to articulate the feeling that he had to fight, that a strange demon had shown up so he had to kill it, there wasn’t a choice. He could have fought it, head on, for daring to cross them, and…

 

…They probably would have died for the effort. Issachar blinked, his thoughts unclouding. The anger and aggression that had driven him before felt entirely alien now, as if they belonged to someone else. Why had he done that? It was incredibly foolish, and now they were days into the desert without any demons to call upon for aid. They could only hope that the scholar they were searching for was near and that he could give them medicines.

 

A tense silence filled the space between them. Any anger that had been on Flynn’s face before was gone now, replaced by something softer, more worried. Issachar turned away before he said anything. Flynn’s anger he could live with, but he couldn’t stand pity.

 

“We should get going,” He said quietly, and walked on without another word. Silently, Flynn followed.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They couldn’t keep running and risk losing energy they might need to fight, but they did move with a renewed sense of urgency. They hadn’t gone far before they heard a new noise on the wind. They froze, but the noise was a human’s voice, not a monster’s bellow. Gradually the voice coalesced into words. “Hey! Hello! Over here!”

 

It was coming from one of the half drowned houses in front of them, itself bordered by a few others almost identical to it. They approached cautiously. Once he was closer, Issachar could see how the house stood apart from the ones around it; tarps covered the gaping holes in its sides, and artificial bottled lights like those he’d seen in the city hung on strings along the front. The source of the voice, a man in a long coat, waved at them from the doorway.

 

“What is he doing?” Issachar muttered. “Doesn’t he know about the demon?”

 

The man kept shouting to them as they approached. “Yes, you two! Follow me!”

 

The stranger beckoned them to follow once more, then ducked through the doorway, which was a hole cut into the side of the dwelling covered with more tarp. The two followed him inside, Flynn’s hand on his sword hilt and Issachar’s shoulders tense, ready for a fight

 

The smell hit Issachar the second he stepped across the threshold, a cloying and acrid stench that burned his throat and made his eyes sting. Flynn likewise held his cloth bandana closer to his mouth and nose. “What is that?” Issachar asked.

 

The stranger blinked owlishly at him. “What’s what?” he asked. Then he laughed. “Oh, you mean the smell! That’s just formaldehyde. Well, formaldehyde and a few other things. It’s quite pungent I admit, but you’ll get accustomed to it soon enough.”

 

Issachar blinked through the tears forming in his eyes from the acidic smell. “Formaldehyde?” His tongue tripped on the strange word.

 

He did not appreciate the way the man looked at him then. “It’s a preservative,” the stranger explained slowly, as if he were peaking to a child. “A chemical added to my samples to stop them from falling apart.”

 

Issachar bit back a retort and took stock of their new surroundings instead. The place was remarkably whole, considering its surroundings, but signs of deterioration and decay were still vey much present. A fine layer of sand seemed to coat every surface, and the floorboards were rotten though in a few places. Something on the upper floor groaned like a strained bear trap. The harsh lights that hung outside shone inside as well, strung up on wire that stretched down the hallway, casting long shadows that stretched and flickered across the floor like living things.

 

The stranger stared at the two of them, waiting. Issachar would have expected the scholar they searched for to be someone old and experienced, but the stranger who stood before them was barely older than a Prentice. He was tall, with messy dark hair and large round spectacles that reflected the hanging lights around them. He wore a long thin coat over his clothes that may have been white long ago, but was now stained a myriad of colors and was even singed around the edges. The leather gloves he wore seemed to have escaped the wear and tear of the coat. Issachar relaxed somewhat. Their new host and surroundings appeared strange, but not immediately dangerous.

 

“Thank you for taking us in,” Flynn said, and bowed. “My name is Flynn, and this is Issachar. We were attacked by a demon in the desert, and it may have followed us. Do you have any way to stop it from coming in here?”

 

“Oh, that’s only Pendragon.” The stranger waved off the concern. “It just stays out in the desert most of the time. It never comes by here; I don’t think it likes the smell. We’ll be fine.” He stepped closer to Flynn and adjusted his glasses. “Your voice is very hoarse. Is that because of the desert?”

 

“Um. No.” Flynn leaned away from the sudden attention, and Issachar’s guard was immediately back up again. “It’s been like this since I was young.”

 

“Now that is interesting.” He got even closer, and started to reach for Flynn’s neck. “I wonder if it could be nodules, or perhaps paralysis of-“

 

That was as far as he got before a sharp feral growl cut him off. Flynn and the man turned to stare at Issachar, and he was about to ask why before he realized that the animal noise was coming from his own throat. He stopped and coughed self-consciously.

 

The stranger took his hand back. “…Introductions, right.” He finally said. “My name is Nakamura. If you’ve come all this way, you probably need something for me. Or perhaps you come on behalf of someone else?”

 

“We need help.” Issachar said. “Or I do, rather.”

 

“Yes, I can see that.” Said Nakamura, and then smiled, good mood returned. “We can discuss it in my study. I would also like to show you some of my research on the way, if you don’t mind. Isolation is good for my work, but I do like to share it when I can.”

 

He led Issachar and Flynn down a long hall with rooms on wither side that had been converted into workspaces. He stopped at every one to explain at length the purpose of the work and items within. He explained to them that he primarily in utility spells, using magic to make protective seals and energy sources, and that he also dabbled in a little bit of everything. Every account sounded identical; he talked about how he was the first person to do this or that, about how much better at protection spells or preservation methods or magic in general he was than his competitors. It seemed to Issachar that Nakamura didn’t want to share his work so much as brag about himself. Issachar barely paid attention to any of it.

 

The last room before the stairs was the same as all the rest. Nakamura went into a long-winded speech about himself while Issachar tried not to physically shake him and order him to move on. The preservative smell was strongest there, and it was making his stomach churn.

 

“Some of them I got from trading, but the vast majority I collected myself,” Nakamura was explaining. “The Harpy wing in the case on the table over there was an interesting mutation I found outside of Ikebukuro. The hunters there said it was the biggest they’d ever seen, and I caught it single-handedly. Even more notable than that is the technique I created to preserve it, and other demon specimen in my collection. They often don’t leave physical bodies when they die, or at least not complete ones. Most solutions you find for it are second rate rubbing alcohol that wears off in a minute. Me, I found a new use for-“

 

“This is all very interesting,” Flynn finally interrupted, “But perhaps you could show us later?”

 

Nakamura appeared unperturbed by the interruption. “Right, right! I do get carried away sometimes.”

 

The group went up the flight of stairs, then straight to Nakamura’s study. An old desk stood in front of the far wall, covered in papers and vials. On the self behind it sat row after row of books, all in surprisingly good condition despite their environment. Issachar desperately wanted to try reading them, eve of they looked more advanced than anything he’d read in Mikado.

 

Nakamura made his way to the shelves while Flynn and Issachar stood in front of his desk. “I’m assuming the help you want is related to your less-than-human nature at the moment, am I correct?” he asked Issachar.

 

Issachar tore his attention away from the books. “Yes.”

 

Nakamura kept talking as he searched the shelf, flipping though books and either putting them back on the shelf or onto his desk. “That works out then. I’ve been researching human demon crosses on my own time for a few years now, so I’ll see what I can do for you. You know,” he dovetailed, “one of the more interesting aspects of the transformation I’ve researched is the malleability of the resulting fusions. Oftentimes they have the skills from the human or demon or both, but other times they can end up with skills that didn’t belong to either component. Where does it come from?” He asked, and then barreled on without waiting for a response. “I’ve started to hypothesize that the psyche has a huge influence on the resulting body, a case of literal mind over matter to create new abilities, but I don’t have enough subjects to study so I can’t say for sure. It is beyond frustrating…”.

 

He shook himself out of his diatribe and thumped a huge dusty tome onto the desk. “All right, I’m ready. Issachar, I’ll need you to disrobe.”

 

Issachar thought about Flynn, who had been standing silently by his side since they had come in. He still didn’t want Flynn to see what was happening to his arms. Issachar tugged on the end of his ragged sleeve. “How much would I need to take off?”

 

“Oh, no, you won’t have to disrobe completely, your friend can stay.” Nakamura said.

 

“It’s fine.” Flynn said. To Issachar he said in a low voice, “I’ll be right outside. Call if you need anything.”

 

He left, and then it was just Issachar and Nakamura. The bespectacled mad clapped his hands together and smiled. “Let’s get started then!”

 

Issachar took off his shirt and shoes and rolled his pants halfway up his thighs as per Nakamura’s orders and sat in the chair in front of his desk. The scholar quieted for the first time since he’d met him, animation and arrogance replaced by acute focus. He would leaf though the journals on his desk, then examine Issachar, prodding his arms or legs or looking at his eyes and teeth. Sometimes he would cast a few spells that Issachar couldn’t feel at all, but must have done something, and write down whatever new discovery he’d found. Nakamura paid special attention to the rough skin on his arms. He touched and measured them, mumbling notes to himself, and even poked some of the patches with a needle. Issachar looked away while he did. The new skin had grown even more since he’d last seen them and had almost completely eclipsed his regular skin.

 

The examination was carried out in near silence, the only noises being the quiet scratching of Nakamura’s pen and the howling desert wind outside. Finally, the man sat at his desk to write and did not return to examine him. Issachar waited, but Nakamura showed no signs of returning, or even remembering that he was still in the room. “Are we done?” he asked.

 

“What?” Nakamura looked up at him, irritated. “Oh, you’re still here. Yes, we’re done.”

 

Issachar pulled his shirt back on just as Flynn came back into the room. He didn’t say anything, just stood next to him and looked at Nakamura exactly.

 

“Do you know what’s wrong with me now? Can you fix it?” Issachar asked. He couldn’t hide the raw hope in his voice at the question. He leaned forward in the chair despite himself, every sense focused on the man in front of him.

 

Nakamura sighed and looked at the notes on his desk. “Yes and no. I’ve seen fusions between humans and demons before, and understood them well, better than anyone, but this,” he gestures to Issachar, “I’ve never seen before. I need more time just to know where to start, not to mention more spells for analysis…” He trailed off.

 

Flynn put his hand on Issachar’s shoulder, but he barely felt it. Everything felt surreal and slow, like he was dreaming again. “What are you saying?” He heard himself ask.

 

Nakamura took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge on his nose with his gloved hands. “This change, whatever it is, is permanent. There’s nothing I or anyone else can do.”


	5. Chapter 5

Issachar didn’t know where he was going when he rushed out of Nakamura’s office. All he knew was that the study felt too small and the air felt too thin. He needed space, needed to breathe. It was all in vain, however. He didn’t feel any better standing out in the hall than he did in the room

 

He leaned on the wall under one of the hanging lights and gripped his upper arms, trying to hold himself together. The light was broken, flickering sporadically and threatening to send the section of the hall into permanent darkness at any second. Issachar’s chest radiated pain. Was fate itself against him? Was he supposed to live the rest of his life like this? What was he going to do now?

 

The floorboards behind him creaked in protest as someone slowly approached. Issachar turned to face the source of the noise, though it was unnecessary; He knew the measure and pace of those steps better than he knew his own.

 

Flynn stood a short distance away, wringing his hands together. Issachar waited for him to do something, or say something, but he didn’t, so Issachar broke the silence for him. “What do you want.”

 

“Issachar, I…” He floundered for something to day, “Nakamura can’t help, but- there could be someone else, or, or I could find something-“

 

“Stop it!” Issachar shouted, in spite of Nakamura’s open door just a few meters away. “You heard him, I’m stuck like this! I’m going to be a freak forever! Stop saying you can fix things when you can’t!”

 

Flynn winced and tried to stutter an answer, “I. I’m trying to help-“

 

“But you haven’t been!” Angry tears stung at Issachar’s eyes and threatened to spill over. Weeks of pain and confusion and fear were leaving him like a torrent, and he spoke without thinking. “I never asked you to save me! If you’d just left me in the forest I wouldn’t have started to hope I could be fixed!” His voice was starting to warp but he would not cry, he refused to cry. “Even if you’d killed me, at least I wouldn’t have to feel like this. You just-you keep making it worse.”

 

Flynn stayed stock still through all of Issachar’s speech, ashen-faced. He looked paralyzed.

 

For all his shouting, Issachar’s misery had not abated at all. It still pooled in his heart as acidic and heavy as it was before. “Just leave me alone and go! You’ve never had any trouble doing it before!”

 

The few times they’d fought in the past, whether with words or fists, they always went blow for blow. Then they’d avoid each other for a day or two at most, then come back together like nothing was ever wrong in the first place. Issachar was waiting for that moment now. Flynn would come back at him with harshness as strong as or stronger than Issachar’s own, they’d separate, and then reconcile. That was what was supposed to happen.

 

But it didn’t. Instead, Flynn seemed to shrink in on himself. He was not a frail man, even with the aftereffects of his illness that dogged him into adulthood, but his slumped shoulders and downcast eyes suddenly made him look much smaller. His face was carefully, deliberately emotionless. “Okay.” He said quietly, almost too quietly for even Issachar’s senses to detect, and started to leave.

 

Only then did Issachar realize the gravity of what he’d just said. Shame and regret seized him in a vice and rooted him to the spot as he watched his once-friend went back into Nakamura’s study. So Issachar did the same, and ventured deeper in to the house, alone.

 

He went back down the stairs and past the terrible smelling rooms Nakamura had shown them not an hour before. Just as with his hasty exit from Nakamura’s study, Issachar didn’t now where he was going, only that he wanted to put distance between himself and Flynn and the terrible things he’d just said. He would try to walk away from himself if it were possible.

 

He came to a stop before the cloth covered front door. Nakamura had said that the Pendragon wouldn’t come by the house, but Issachar still had his doubts about how long such a formidable demon would be deterred by mere scent alone. In any case, he wasn’t going to risk going out by himself, no matter how distraught he felt.

 

He started to pace down the hall, with no other aim than to get rid of nervous energy, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a thin metal door, slightly ajar, that sat between the first two rooms Nakamura had shown them. It was unsurprising that he hadn’t noticed it before; the door blended into the wall, and while the desert scholar had made a point of showing them every room on the floor at length, he hadn’t even gestured to this one.

 

Issachar carefully nudged it open. The hinges glided soundlessly and the door opened to reveal a precarious wooden staircase that stretched down into the dark. The smell that pervaded the house was all but absent from the passageway. He didn’t see or hear anyone coming, so he quickly stepped into the dark and closed the door behind him.

 

Issachar’s eyes adjusted to the dim nearly instantly. The stairs ended in a small stone hallway that led to a single door. He approached it with more than a little trepidation. Just like the door he’d just gone through, this door wasn’t locked either. He pushed it open.

 

Rather anticlimactically, the room looked virtually identical to the ones on the floor above. It had a lower ceiling, and a bitter musty smell, but it featured a small desk with a chair and bookshelves on the far wall, the same as most of the rooms he’d already seen.

 

Even after everything, he still wanted to try reading some of the books in the house. This was as good an opportunity as any. He sat at the desk , which held a pile of journals and a glass case that enclosed a fang as long as Issachar’s arm, and started to read the open book on the desk. It took a marked effort to turn the pages with his clawed fingers.

 

Just as he suspected in Nakamura’s study, it was much more advanced than anything he’d tried to read before. It was filled with unfamiliar terms, and written in what he assumed was Nakamura’s handwriting, which was so scattered and sloppy that he had a hard time reading even familiar words. That wasn’t even factoring in the brown stains that blotted out some words entirely.

 

Even if he had the simplest, cleanest text to read, however, Issachar didn’t think he’d be able to focus. He kept replaying the entire episode in his mind’s eye, all of the terrible things he’d said to Flynn, and the defeated slump of Flynn’s head and shoulders as he left, his body slightly curved inward as if he were wounded somewhere vital. Issachar couldn’t blame his outburst on the new demonic part of himself even if he wanted to. The words were entirely his own, and he alone had to make up for it somehow.

 

He needed to talk to Flynn. But what would he even say? And Flynn might not even want to see Issachar. He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

 

He flipped through the pages mindlessly while he thought until something new broke the monotony of bad handwriting and crossed out notes. It was a drawing that took up an entire page, a human man from the waist up. His torso was open, skinned and with the ribcage removed to display the insides, with words and arrows written in and around them. Incredible detail went towards illustrating the organs and exposed musculature, while the face was barely an afterthought. The next few pages were more of the same, sketches of whole organs and cross-sections of organs. He saw a heart, a kidney, a liver, and organs and bones he didn’t know the names for.

 

Could they be medical references? Of all the things Nakamura mentioned he did, being a physician was not one of them.

 

Two sharp knocks on the door broke his train of thought. Issachar jolted in his seat and his claws snagged on the page he was looking at, tearing it inn two. He stood up, hopeful and anxious. “Flynn?”

 

The half open door opened wider with a soft creak, and Nakamura peeked in. “Afraid not. It’s just me.”

 

Issachar was so disappointed he forgot to feel the least bit of shame at being discovered going through their host’s personal things.

 

Nakamura didn’t seem to mind too much, either. “I see you’ve found my journals, then.” He smiled disarmingly as he approached the desk and Issachar. “You seemed to be in a rush earlier, so I didn’t take you down here. I would have shown you both afterwards, but…I don’t think either of you are in much mood for a tour now.”

 

Issachar subbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You heard all that?”

 

“It was hard not to.” Nakamura replied dryly. “Your companion is still in my study. I told him I’d find wherever you ran off to.”

 

Issachar didn’t think to hide the damage he’d caused to Nakamura’s notes until the scholar was right in front of the desk and could see what he did.

 

“I was just reading, and my hand slipped- I didn’t mean to –“

 

Nakamura ‘hmm’ed in understanding. “Claws do make reading more difficult. It took me quite some time to relearn turning pages.”

 

Issachar gaped at him in confusion. It couldn’t be…

 

Nakamura pulled the glove from his right hand and waggled his fingers at Issachar. Instead of nails, his fingertips ended in sharp claws. He smiled wider, open-mouthed, revealing curved, pointed teeth.

 

Shock and surprise hit Issachar like a punch to the gut. “You-You’re like me!”

 

Nakamura laughed. “I’m surprised it took you this long to realize!”

 

“But why didn’t you tell us before, when you first met us?” He asked.

 

“Oh, that.” The scholar moved away from the desk to the bookshelves on the wall and idly started tracing the spines with his claw, creating a soft scratching sound that filled the background of their conversation. “A small mistruth. I wanted to make sure I could trust you. You might not know this yet, but there are some who do not appreciate fusions like us, not at all.”

 

“Is that why you live out here?” 

 

Nakamura shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons.” There was a new earnestness in his voice when he spoke again.” Another small mistruth; I told you there was nothing I could do for you. I meant for now. I’m making incredible strides in my research everyday.” He stepped away from the shelf. “I had a theory I wanted to check. Could I see your arm again?”

 

Issachar walked over to stand with him by the bookshelf, and without another word Nakamura grasped his arm and pushed his sleeve back to expose it. Issachar bristled at being grabbed and manipulated like an object, but some self-preservation instinct kept him still. The scholar’s strength belied his lean frame; He had a grip like iron and Issachar didn’t think he could even begin to resist it in close-quarters. Nakamura poked the rough patches of skin with his claw and nodded to himself while Issachar was frozen. It felt like Nakamura was prodding him through a cloth covering. Issachar barely felt it.

 

“I might know why your arms are doing this. I’ve found that occasionally a new body resulting from fusion can change and develop posthumous defenses against things that caused them harm in life.”

 

Nakamura pushed down harder on his arm, and Issachar felt a sharp pinprick of pain. A tiny drop of dark red blood beaded where Nakamura’s claw had finally pierced the tough hide. “The patches on your skin resemble protective leather. Have you ever had any negative experiences with fire?”

 

Issachar wanted his arm back. “Somewhat.”

 

Nakamura ‘hmm’ed again, adjusted his gasses, and finally released his grip. Issachar snatched his arm back. It had already stopped bleeding, but he still had to resist the urge to lick it clean.

 

“I meant what I said before,” Nakamura said. “You are utterly unique among all the crosses I’ve seen. I’d like it if you’d stay here with me.”

 

And another shock in addition to the one’s he’d already had today. Issachar grasped for words to the sudden proposition. “Why would you want me to stay?”

 

“To study you.” Nakamura said plainly. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, despite the fact that they were the only two people in the room. “It would give me more time to record everything about you before any of my competitors could. I don’t know when I’ll find another fusion like you again.”

 

Could he really stay in the underground country? Issachar had never considered the possibility of leaving Mikado to find a new life elsewhere. The world was opening up before him, so fast it made him dizzy.

 

Nakamura continued, “I can make it worth your while. I could teach you about my research, so you could help me. You’ll never be on my level intellectually of course-“ Issachar growled under his breath in irritation, but the scholar continued regardless,”-but I think you could make a competent assistant with time. And I would make time to start finding was to reverse your transformation.”

 

Make time? “You haven’t already tried to make yourself human again?” Issachar asked.

 

Now instead of casual superiority, Nakamura was looking at him as if he were spouting nonsense. “Human? Why would I want to be human?”

 

“To stop being like…this.” To have control, to not feel your body was at war with itself, to not feel like your mind was constantly at battle with something other, something dangerous. To have things be normal again.

 

Nakamura let out a sound that was more bark than laugh. “On the contrary!” He said, and then sobered, his gaze turning serious in a second. “There is one more thing. I also live out here to avoid undue attention. When I still lived in the city, there were some who found some of my experiments unsavory. I would need you to help me with whatever I asked, without question.” His gaze bored into Issachar’s own. Behind his large spectacles Nakamura’s pupils were vertical slits, like a cat’s.

 

Issachar’s thoughts flashed to the diagrams he’d found in the journal, and even further back to the skull he’d seen in the desert. But that could just be a coincidence; It didn’t necessarily mean that Nakamura was doing anything sinister. And he was offering a chance to gain more knowledge, and find a way back to how he was before. He couldn’t stand the man personally, be he could learn to endure him. There wasn’t much stopping him. His home and family were gone. He still wanted to find the Black Samurai and demand answers to why they did what they did, but he was beginning to doubt whether finding the Black Samurai was even possible.

 

There was nothing holding Issachar back. He was free to go. Except –

 

Nakamura noticed his hesitation, and frowned coldly at him. “Is this about your companion upstairs? You said it yourself, he’s already left you once before. He’s probably going to do it again before too long, if he hasn’t done it already. He doesn’t care about you.”

 

But that wasn’t true, Issachar realized. Flynn had cared about him for as far back as he could remember, and Issachar felt the same, before jealously and hurt distorted his reasoning. Issachar had carried so much resentment towards Flynn for being chosen to be a Samurai instead of him, but it wasn’t fair to blame him for that. As much as Issachar didn’t want to think about it, if the situation had been reversed, he would have gone on to a new life without a second thought for who he would be leaving behind. And ever since Flynn had found him in the woods and refused to hurt him, he hadn’t stopped trying to help him. He kept him safe, tried to make him more comfortable, even abandoned his mission, all for him. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t care.

 

Flynn still needed to rejoin his brethren and find the Black Samurai. Issachar couldn’t leave him before his mission had barely even begun.

 

He shook his head and stepped away. “I can’t stay here.”

 

“Why?” Nakamura’s brow furrowed as his questions became more forceful. “Because you think he’s smarter than I am? Because you think he can help you better than I can?”

 

“No. Because he’s my friend.”

 

Nakamura tilted his head as if Issachar were a particularly vexing puzzle. “I can’t say I understand your reasoning, but if that’s how you feel…” He shifted his weigh and turned as if he were going to walk away.

 

Issachar wasn’t sure what happened next. In an instant he was sent flying through the air, as if gravity stopped working. It was only for a split second, but it was still long enough for him to think, He threw me. How did he throw me? I didn’t even see him move.

 

Issachar hit the wall back first and fell forward on the desk with a crash like thunder. The desk cracked as it broke in half, and pain exploded through his side and shoulder. The case that held the fang shattered from the impact, and it was only pure luck that he didn’t impale himself on the tooth or the glass shards. He tumbled from the broken desk to the cold floor and lay still, terrified that his back was broken.

 

“If you won’t join me, that’s your choice.”

 

Nakamura stood just outside the doorway. His glove was back on, and he was hang some objects on the doorframe. He kept talking as Issachar painfully got to his feet. “I’ll need you to stay don here, however. At least for the immediate future.”

 

An invisible hum of energy filled the stale air and made the hairs on Issachar’s neck stand up. It felt familiar, but he couldn’t tell how until he saw what Nakamura had hung up. Two small metal amulets, the same shape as the sigil at the underground entrance in Ueno, hung on the opposing doorjambs across from each other. The symbols created a barrier in the doorway that shimmered like air distorted by the summer heat.

 

Nakamura looked at him from the other side of the barrier with the detached cruelty of a child inspecting a bug in a jar. “When I heard that ‘angels’ came down from the sky tower, I thought I’d have to track them down myself. Imagine my surprise when they turn up in my desert and deliver themselves to my doorstep!”

 

Issachar’s stomach iced over in dread. “No, Nakamura, you’ve seen us, we’re not angels, we’re not magical at all.”

 

“Of course you’re not. Well, your friend isn’t at least.” The scholar was staring through Issachar, his mind already gone toward planning his unholy procedures. “I’ve used humans from the surrounding districts in my experiments before, alive and dead, and they’ve never done what I’ve needed them to. A human not from this Earth might give me the ingredients I need.”

 

Issachar wanted to reach out and throttle him. He ground his teeth helplessly and drove his fist into the wall next to the barrier, knocking a few flakes of dust loose from the ceiling.

 

“Careful not to touch it now.” Nakamura reprimanded him. “The barrier’s a modified Agi spell. It won’t kill you instantly like a Zio barrier would, but it will still definitely hurt. I need you in one piece in case the other one is ineffective.”

 

“You won’t be able to kill Flynn. He’ll see it coming, he’ll fight you.”

 

The scholar tapped his chin in an exaggerated show of thought. “He would suspect me of trying something underhanded, you’re right.” Then he recited what would only be a spell, and his clothes twisted and changed color. His long coat, as well as the rest of his clothes, had been replaced with worn brown fabrics that mirrored Issachar’s own clothes. He pulled a needle from his pocket, the same needle he poked Issachar with in his study. It still had a smear of blood on the tip. Nakamura stuck out his tongue and licked it.

 

Immediately he started to change. His eyes rolled back as his skin started to run and melt like wax. Issachar looked on in horror as Nakamura’s bones and muscles cracked and shattered as the transformation took its course. Finally, Nakamura stilled. The scholar looked up, and it was not Nakamura’s face that stared back at him, but Issachar’s own.

 

“He will not, however, suspect you.”

 

The last thing Issachar saw before Nakamura pushed the door shut was an evil, arrogant grin on the face of his doppelgänger. Then the door clicked shut, and he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* Plot Twist


	6. Chapter 6

Issachar virtually tore the room apart, looking for any cracks or hidden passageways he could use to escape, his panic and alarm burning at a fever pitch. But the room was as impenetrable and lonely as a tomb. The only solution seemed to be the door he’d entered through.

 

He cut his focus down to the door in front of him to stop his rising panic and keep himself centered. He needed to work one step at a time. The charms Nakamura hung up were making a barrier that stopped him from leaving. If he removed the charms, the invisible door would probably go away. But he couldn’t touch them. Maybe he could throw something to knock it off, or use a long enough tool to pry it off. The charm in Ueno didn’t burn humans or their clothes and belongings, just demons. Maybe this one would be the same?

 

That plan was a dead end. The only things heavy enough in the room were books, which were not the most ideal throwing items he could have wished for. The barrier proved to be much harsher than the one outside the gateway in Ueno as well. Every time one connected with the barrier, it was repelled violently with a loud hiss and a sharp burning smell. After he’d thrown his makeshift volley, the barrier still stood as strong as ever, with Issachar’s only accomplishment being an immature satisfaction at having destroyed some of Nakamura’s things.

 

His control was staring to crumble away and panic was leaking in through the cracks. If he couldn’t knock the amulets loose from a distance, what else was he supposed to do? He looked at his hands uncertainly. Maybe if he only touched it for the briefest moment, long enough to pry it from the wall, he wouldn’t get hurt too badly. In any case, he needed to try. He was running out of time.

 

He walked right up to the barrier, heart radiating off it in waves so intense they made him squint. He darted his hand forward to pull the amulet on the left doorjamb.

 

“Agh!”Shock raced from his hand to his brain like lightening, blaring a message of _paingetawaypaingetaway_. He automatically snatched his hand back and cradled it against his chest, his breath shaking as the pain ebbed.

 

His brow furrowed. As bad as that had been, it was strange that the pain was leaving so quickly. He looked down at his hand, and his eyes widened in shock.

 

His normal skin was red from irritation, but his new thicker skin was untouched. Like water, his new skin was spreading and overtaking his inflamed skin, dousing the pain as it went. Even though the damage was to his right hand, the growth of the new skin was mirrored on his left hand as well. Before long all of the skin on his hands and about half the skin on his forearms were covered entirely in the tough hide.

 

The invisible door was made with Agi, not Zio. Maybe now…

 

He reached for the amulet again, slowly; the lingering memory of the pain the barrier caused before was making his hand shake. He plunged his hand into the invisible energy. The hem of his shirt began to curl and smoke, but his hand was untouched. It was still scorching hot, but less so before, like holding his hand above a hot iron rather than touching the metal directly.

 

Before his new luck could run out he dug his claws into the wood around the amulet and yanked. The item, as well as a good chunk of the doorway, came loose. The metal amulet was hot to the touch and pulsed with magical energy in his palm. He quickly repeated the process on the other amulet, and the hum of energy that had chocked the room finally fell silent. The unlocked door the barrier had been shielding creaked open.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Issachar kept his eyes and ears trained for any signs of danger as he crept through the first floor of the house. The hanging lights were all out, casting the world in faded washed out colors. His field of vision immediately in front of him was clear, but he was having trouble seeing any further than that. He doubted he’d hear a response, but he called Flynn’s name into the darkness regardless.

 

He could hear something moving erratically somewhere ahead of him. Issachar froze, hands fisted at his sides, listened to the rhythm of the sounds, and recognized footsteps. He sunk into a fighting stance as the steps grew louder, until finally a figure rounded the corner. He couldn’t see their face at that distance in the dark, but the silhouette of a ponytail and slim jacket were more than enough to identify them.

 

“Issachar!” Flynn called, and stumbled towards him. He was limping, his leg badly lacerated, and Issachar could smell blood from the wound even above the formaldehyde in the air. His upper arm looked severely burnt as well, and the wound and the rest of his jacket carried the ozone reek of a Zio spell. “You’re alright!” He carried himself stiffly, but he still smiled at Issachar and touched his shoulder.

 

“But how did you escape?”

 

“Nakamura tried to lock me in the basement, but I kicked the door open.”

 

Something that might have been confusion flickered across Flynn’s face, but it was gone in less than an instant. Issachar peered into his face and into his eyes for a long moment, then forced a smile on his face. “I got him back for it, though. I wrecked the first room I found once I got out of there. I broke all the cases, and tore up the books too.”

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

Flynn shoved Issachar away and started to rush down the hall Issachar had just come from as fast as his injured leg would allow. Before he could get far Issachar pulled on the collar of his shirt and held it fast. He brought up his other hand and dropped the amulet he’d been concealing in his palm down Flynn’s shirt.

 

He screamed in layers of voices as the smell of burning meat filled the air, and tore at the clothes on his back to rip away the amulet that was melting flesh and fabric together. The glamour shattered like window glass, the disguise falling away to reveal Nakamura. The scholar finally ripped the amulet off and threw it away behind him. Most of his coat was gone, and the skin on his shoulder blades was almost burnt off entirely.

 

Issachar charged at him then, but Nakamura wasn’t in so much pain that he was entirely unaware. Nakamura snarled, arms already morphed into dangerous claws, and swiped at him. The glancing blow didn’t cause much damage, but Issachar was still knocked across the floor by his sheer strength.

 

“You ungrateful brat!” Nakamura spat, staggering, trying to stay upright. “I spare your life, and this is how you repay me!”

 

He finally drew himself to full height – but something was wrong. He stood up, and up, and up, body stretching until his head was practically touching the ceiling. “If this is how you want to do it, fine,” he said, his voice multiplying as several voices spoke as one.

 

He fell forward on hands which were fast becoming even more massive claws, while his body and neck made sickening grinding noises as the lengthened and changed. He didn’t bother to enchant his clothes, and they fell away like so much wet paper as the magic took its course. It was faster than before, and sloppier, like he was too enraged to properly think it through; parts appeared and fell away almost at random. It was dizzying to watch, a living cyclone of horns and feathers and scales and teeth.

 

The monster that rose to face Issachar was a patchwork nightmare. It had the body of Pendragon, long and scaled with a raised back that brushed the ceiling, and overlarge feathered wings that stayed folded on his back for lack of room. Ragged feathers the color of rotten meat coated his back and neck and framed his face, which looked almost human; Horns and feathers and scales surrounded it, and the teeth were large enough to create a dangerous under bite, but the jaw and throat were still structured enough for him to speak. “I should have killed and stuffed you when I had the chance,” Nakamura hissed, “But it doesn’t matter now. You can’t be harder to kill than the other one.” 

 

Issachar’s heart tore in two. What little color was in his world leaked away as the shocked numbness he felt in Nakamura’s office returned, but so much worse. The air left his lungs in a soft plea. “You didn’t.”

 

Nakamura’s face stretched into a gross facsimile of a smile. “That’s right. I tore him to pieces just before you got out. If you’d been a even second earlier you could have saved him.” His face stretched wider, and it wasn’t even the barest implication of a smile anymore, just a vertical gash of teeth. “It’s too bad you didn’t get to see the stupid look on his face when was trying to hold his own guts in.”

 

Issachar was grateful for the shock that stifled him like a blanket tied around his head. It quieted his emotions so all he felt was a distant, dull grief. He knew he would come back to himself later, and fully realize that Flynn was dead. He would understand, and grieve, but for the moment shock kept him sane, kept him focused on what was most important; Flynn was dead, and the beast in front of him was responsible.

 

The basic, instinctive part of him wanted to run, but the logical part of his mind dismissed the notion. He didn’t want to turn his back to Nakamura, even for a second. He would stay and fight, and make this monster suffer for what he did to Flynn.

 

He pulled out the monster fang from the shattered display case in the basement that he’d hidden in his waistband. His improvised weapon was long and sharp, but unwieldy, without the natural fit of a proper knife. But he would make it work. Nakamura started to slowly advance, his head lowered and all his feathers on end to make himself appear even larger than he already was.

 

He dragged himself forward with all his weight on his left foreleg. His right side and foreleg were still damaged from the Zio spell that must have come from Flynn. His eyes were steady, and never left the fang in Issachar’s hand. Issachar likewise backed away slowly, and kept watch on Nakamura’s every movement. He hadn’t used any magic yet, which led Issachar to believe that Nakamura was like himself and didn’t have any.

 

He wished he had a longer weapon. A boar spear, or even a fishing spear would let him stay farther out of range and do more damage. He kept a tight leash on his urge to leap at the beast and fight all out, consequences be damned – this could be his last chance for revenge, and besides which his friend had already sacrificed so much to help him. He wasn’t going to throw his life away so quickly.

 

His chance to attack came when Nakamura stumbled. As he took another step forward, damage from the Zio spell or one of another unseen injuries made him slip, and he fell forward on his side, hard. Almost without thought Issachar bolted forward and slashed the beast lengthwise across the neck. Nakamura screeched and whipped his head around to bite at him, but Issachar got away before he could; the jaws only caught the barest fabric of his sleeve.

 

It was then that Issachar realized something that he hadn’t considered before; he had speed and reflexes he could have only dreamed of before when he was human. He could approach, attack, and retreat in the time it took to think it.

 

It was the perfect time for such a realization. Nakamura had foregone the careful approach from before in favor of charging forward to catch Issachar in his jaws, attacking in blind rage in lieu of any real strategy.

 

But he was repeatedly foiled. Issachar ducked and dodged and was always just out of reach, and used the fang where Nakamura was vulnerable, around the soft parts of his face and neck. The rare times Nakamura’s fangs did find purchase, it was always on the protected skin of Issachar’s arms. The influence of the Agi charm seemed to have hardened them; when Nakamura got a grip his fangs couldn’t break through, and then it was just a matter of slashing with his weapon until Nakamura let go. The wounds inflicted by the Zio spell were proving to be the death of him; Nakamura couldn’t risk attacking with the one foreleg that kept him upright.

 

At the end of his rope, Nakamura made one last full-force charge. He hurled his entire body forward, mouth open, teeth set to skewer. It was here that Issachar’s luck ran out. He jumped backward, but not far enough. Nakamura had charged farther than he thought he would. He avoided damage from the teeth, but still ended up on the end of a violet head-butt.

 

Issachar stumbled. The demon fang, already slippery from Nakamura’s blood, slipped from his grasp and clattered across the floor. His falter gave Nakamura just long enough to pick it up with his teeth, and break it with a loud snap. Blood was flowing into his eye from a cut on his brow, but he still smirked as Issachar as he started to crawl forward again. A severe cut just under his chin that stretched down his neck steadily dripped blood that soaked into the dusted floor as he advanced.

 

Issachar had no more weapons. He could run away, but he barely knew the layout of the house, and didn’t want to risk it. He readied himself to spring forward for one last-ditch attack; even if he didn’t survive, he would make damn sure he took Nakamura down with him.

 

Before either combatant had a chance to launch a final blow, day exploded in the dim hallway, like the sun had suddenly appeared in all its harsh glory. Issachar reeled backward at the blaze of light, and he heard Nakamura scream in pain. He smelled something new above the blood and preservative; ozone.

 

He blinked the spots from his eyes. There were new still smoldering burns across Nakamura’s back. His wing was burnt to a crisp. He turned to look behind him, exposing the soft vulnerable parts of his neck right to Issachar.

 

He closed the short distance between them in the space of a heartbeat and tore the incision already on his neck wide open. The trickle of blood turned into a gushing river as his talons pierced an artery. Hot blood splattered across Issachar’s arms and chest.

 

Nakamura’s scream tapered off into a chocked gurgle. He collapsed, his body thrashing in its death throes. The spasms trailed off into tremors, as his body stilled and began to disintegrate in the manner that demons did. His lifeblood started to soak through Issachar’s tattered shoes as he watched the disintegration spread past his burnt useless wings, his upper body, neck, head, and finally swallowed up his staring lifeless eyes, until the only signs Nakamura had even been there were a cooling bloodstain soaking through the floor and a heavy cloud of sparks and ash that chocked the hallway.

 

A shape was revealing itself at the other end of the hall as the plumes of ash dispersed. It started to limp towards Issachar, and he geared himself up for another fight, even though he was dead tired and just wanted to lie down and grieve for years.

 

The ashes gradually drifted away as the figure got closer and closer, until the last of the dregs of the cloud soaked into the walls and settled at his feet, and Issachar found himself staring into piercing green eyes he thought he’d only ever see again in his dreams.

 

“Flynn?”

 

He looked awful. His arm was clamped tightly around his midsection, and a dark stain marred most of shirt and pants as well. An ugly bruise was forming on the left side of his face. All of his weight was balanced precariously on one side, and a laceration on his thigh oozed blood weakly. There were beads of sweat on his pale brow from the exertion of moving.

 

Still, he smiled when he saw Issachar, or tried to. His lips twitched upwards like they were unable to form a full smile. “Iss’char,” He was looking at a spot slightly above and to the left of Issachar. He swayed in place. “You’re okay. Tha’s’ good.” His eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. Issachar ran forward and caught him before he hit the floor.

 

Flynn was a deadweight in his arms. He laid him out on the floor, gently. It was no wonder Nakamura had though he’d killed him; he was grievously injured, and with his eyes closed looked almost indistinguishable from a corpse. He moved Flynn’s arm from where it was loosely clamped around his midsection to get a better look, and bit back a scream of horror at the sight. He clamped his hands on the wound immediately to staunch the blood flow and keep him together. 

 

This jostled Flynn enough to startle him awake. His eyes roamed aimlessly before settling on Issachar. “Hey,” Flynn said, casually, as if he wasn’t bleeding out. He tried to say something else, but it came out as a croak. He swallowed, and tried again. There was blood on his teeth. “Where are we?”

 

“Nakamura’s house, remember?” Blood still leaked sluggishly through Issachar’s fingers. Nakamura might have medical supplies hidden somewhere, but he didn’t have anything else to pug the wound with while he searched, and Flynn was in no condition to hold it closed himself. “You got hurt, but you’re going to be fine, you just need to stay awake.”

 

Flynn’s eyes were drifting shut again. His voice was barely a shadow of its former self. His hand weakly grasped for Issachar’s own. “M’happy you came back. I missed-missed-”

 

His voice trailed off into stillness, and his hand fell to the floor like a puppet its strings cut. “Flynn? Flynn!” Issachar’s vision was starting to swim. “I need you to wake up, okay? You’ll be fine, just-you have to wake up.”

 

If he heard him, he showed no sign. Issachar blinked rapidly as tears began to fall, mixing with Flynn’s blood and dripping down to the ash soaked floor. “Flynn, I’m sorry. Wake up, please wake up. I can’t lose you again.”

 

Issachar’s eyes were wrenched shut, tears filling and falling from them. He could barely see anything but a mosaic of blurred colors and a soft light refracted by the liquid in his eyes.

 

His brow furrowed in confusion. A soft glow was breaking through his haze of tears, a light more gentle than the harsh illumination of the Zio spell. He pried his eyes open wide enough to see that it was coming from him, or more specifically, where his hands were connecting with Flynn’s body trying to keep pressure on the wound. Some new instinct insisted that he keep his hands where they were, so he did. The light from his palms kept glowing brighter, but never bright enough to hurt, and started t emitted a slight heat a well. As the light glowed even stronger, Flynn’s flesh started knit itself back together before his eyes. His insides righted themselves, and the hole in his midsection started to close. The effects reached beyond the glow of his hands, and he saw Flynn’s arms and leg visibly recovering as well.

 

There was one final burst of light, and this did force his tired eyes, already dazed from the lightning strike, to shut briefly. When he could see again, they flew open in shock. Flynn’s terrible injuries were gone without a trace.

 

He started to stir. Issachar gently lifted and pulled him into his lap so he wouldn’t wake up on the hardwood floor, and smoothed back the hair that had fallen in his face. “Flynn?”

 

His eyes flickered, and finally opened, and light returned to Issachar’s world. His eyes started to water again, but from joy instead of sorrow. “Flynn! Are you alright?”

 

He blinked slowly. “Yes.” Then he made a face. “No.” He learned over, out of Issachar’s arms, and retched. Then he passed out again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paradoxically, the safest place for Flynn at that moment was in the house of the man who’d tried to kill him. Issachar didn’t know if he was completely healed or not, and the harsh desert outside might do more harm than good. So Issachar picked him up, and went to search from some kind of space for him to rest.

 

He carried him upstairs, and tried his best to ignore the bloodstains on the floor that marked the path Flynn took to aid him in his fight against Nakamura. Not far past the study he found what had to be the dead scholar’s bedroom. It was sparse; there wasn’t much in it but a mattress, a few blankets, loose papers scattered about, and a wardrobe that had seen better days.

 

Issachar gingerly set Flynn down on the mattress, his deep sleep unbroken. He looked better, without even a scar to show for what happened, but his shirt and pants were undeniably ruined. Issachar looked down at himself and grimaced. His own weren’t in much better condition. He went to find some clothes in the wardrobe in the room, while keeping an ear out for any change in Flynn’s condition.

 

He opened the doors warily, afraid a new monster or some spell or something would leap out and attack him, but there was nothing but a myriad of musty smelling shirts and pants. As he leafed through them he realized that they were terrifying in their own right; many of the clothes were obviously too small or too large for Nakamura. He set aside his revulsion for the moment and found mostly undamaged clothes for them to wear. A small mirror hung next to the wardrobe at eye level. Issachar shrugged off his bloodstained shirt and pulled on a plain shirt he’d found, then went to inspect himself in the mirror.

 

The sight made him stop short. Not because of the shirt, which he barely noticed, but because of his eyes. Almost the entirety of his eyes, the sclera and irises, were scarlet red. His pupils were severe vertical slits, just like Nakamura’s had been. He’d felt different ever since becoming a demon, but he never realized he looked so different. And the changes reached beyond his eyes. The demonic skin on his arms had spread up the sides of his neck to end in points under his eyes. He would have mistaken them for tattoos if he didn’t know any better.

 

Before he could touch one of the new markings, he heard a new noise from the bed. Flynn was starting to wake up.

 

In a flash he was kneeling by the bedside, the clothes he’d found dropped carelessly at the foot of it. When Flynn’s eyes finally opened, they were much more alert and aware than they had been when he was bleeding out in the hallway.

 

He wore a confused expression. “Where are we? What happened?”

 

Could this be memory loss? He’d thought whatever happened with his hands had healed Flynn, but maybe there was some deeper injury they couldn’t fix. “Nakamura’s room,” Issachar answered, trying to keep panic from entering his voice. “I was fighting him, well he transformed and then I fought him – He was part-demon too, and –“

 

“I used a Zio spell on him,” Flynn cut in. He sat up, his habitual quiet focus quickly returning. “You killed him, I think. There was smoke everywhere, then I saw you, then-“ He shook his head. “I don’t remember anything else after that.”

 

Issachar took a seat beside the mattress and explained what happened after he left Flynn in the hall, meeting Nakamura in the basement, his offer, how he tried to lock him away, and how Issachar fought him after he tried to disguise himself.

 

Flynn listened attentively, nodding every once in while. Issachar hesitated after he told Flynn of how he collapsed. “I’m not sure what happened after that. I tired to stop the bleeding, and my hands started glowing, and then you got better.”

 

Flynn looked at his hands. Belatedly, Issachar realized that this was the first time Flynn has seen his new skin. He looked in the midst of puzzling something out; if Flynn had any reaction to the new change, he didn’t show it. “Do you remember what it felt like?”

 

“It was-“ He searched for words to describe the strange light. “It was good. I think. Like falling asleep in the sun in spring. That sort of warmth. But brighter?”

 

He internally cringed at his clumsy explanation, but Flynn just nodded like he hadn’t spouted nonsense. “I’ve seen Isabeau do something similar,” Flynn said quietly. “It sounds like you used a healing spell.”

 

Issachar blinked. “But that can’t be it. I can’t use magic.”

 

“What else could it be?”

 

“It’s” He started to say, but couldn’t think of any alternative. He shook his head. “I guess it was magic. But why can I use it now?”

 

Flynn shrugged. The two settled into a contemplative but not uncomfortable silence.

 

Issachar was the first to break it. He forced himself to meet Flynn’s eyes. “About, um, what I said before…”

 

Flynn looked at him with an expression of fear and slight nausea. Issachar felt the same, but this needed to be said. “I’m sorry.”

 

He didn’t look so scared anymore at least. Issachar continued, “I was angry, when you left, when I turned into this, at a lot of things.” He tried weakly for a self-deprecating smile. “I’m actually still angry. But that’s not an excuse. I took it out on you, and that was wrong of me. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and you didn’t deserve any of that. I’m sorry.”

 

He couldn’t look him in the face anymore. The last part, the most difficult part, he said to his knees and the floor. “I want to keep traveling with you, if you’ll let me, but if you don’t want me to, I understand. I’ll leave after we get out of the desert.”

 

His speech was met with silence. He looked up again at Flynn, whose expression was indecipherable. Before Issachar could apologize again, or move away, or do anything, Flynn gently grabbed at his shirt. The he pulled him in, so slowly that Issachar realized what he was doing and had ample to time to escape the grip if he so chose. But that was the last thing on Earth he wanted to do. He raised his arms as Flynn pulled him into an embrace, and returned it with equal fondness.

 

Flynn smiled into his neck. “I’m sorry too. I should have asked what you were going through sooner, but I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing. Whatever happens, you’ll always be my friend. That’s never going to change.”

 

Issachar hugged him tighter in response. He greedily hoarded the signs of life the embrace afforded him; the warmth in Flynn’s body, the strength in his hold, the faint heartbeat he felt through his hands.

 

They separated, though Issachar was loath too, and Flynn looked down at his hands again. He waited for any sign of repulsion from his friend, but none came. Instead Flynn showed a cautious interest. “Does it hurt at all? Your new skin?”

 

“Not really. It’s actually pretty durable, it’s hard to damage now.”

 

His eyes traced Issachar’s new skin up his arms and neck, and stopped at the marks just under Issachar’s eyes. “Can I touch them?”

 

Issachar had a feeling that anything he tried to say would just end up a stuttering mess, so he just nodded mutely. Flynn’s hand cupped his face, and he carefully traced the mark under Issachar’s right eye with his thumb.  
“Do you think they’ll keep spreading?”

 

Issachar had been resisting the urge to lean into Flynn’s palm and belatedly realized that Flynn had asked him a question. “Oh. Um. Maybe? I don’t think so.”

 

Flynn took his hand away. “You have a new shirt.”

 

He missed it already. “Yeah, mine was a mess, so I found this one.” He motioned to the pile of clothes he’d left at the foot of the bed. “I found these for you, if you want them.”

 

Flynn grabbed the pile of clothes and stood, and Issachar face away from him with his eyes shut so he could change.

 

Flynn did not falter putting in the new clothes, like Issachar had worried he might, but it did sap the rest of his new energy. As soon as he said he was done and Issachar turned around, he was settling back down on the mattress with every intention of going to sleep.

 

Issachar felt himself start to drift off as well. The stress of everything he’d been through, fighting, losing Flynn and gaining him back, and using magic for the first time, hit all at once, and he could not bite back an enormous yawn.

 

Flynn moved from the center of the bed to the side closest to the wall and patted the empty spot next to him. At any other time Issachar would refuse and keep watch while Flynn slept, and maybe get some sleep when Flynn woke up, but he was exhausted and honestly didn’t think he could stay awake much longer. He stumbled toward the bed and all but collapsed onto the mattress. It was not stuffed with straw, like their beds at home, but something softer and firmer. It smelled only faintly like Nakamura, vague enough that he could ignore it.

 

Flynn’s breaths were evening out with the onset of sleep, and Issachar wasn’t far behind. At that moment he felt the most tranquility he’d had since his whole ordeal started. Regaining Flynn’s companionship was like regaining a lost limb, and his new demonic nature didn’t seem as catastrophic as it once had because of it. He let his newfound contentment bloom in his chest and radiate outward to warm him like sunlight.

 

He was about to fall into slumber when Flynn nudged his side. He shook off the specter of sleep as best he could. “What is it?” He whispered.

 

Though Flynn’s body language was mostly calm and unconcerned, his eyes roamed the small room. “I’m not sure, but I think I hear something in here with us. It sounds familiar, but I just can’t place what –“ He stopped short and stared at Issachar. Before he could ask what he was staring at, Flynn reached over and put a hand on his chest.

 

His thoughts immediately stopped short. “Wh-what-“

 

“Shhh.” Flynn stared at him longer, hand still on his chest, then grinned at him. “You’re purring.”

 

As soon as he said it, Issachar became aware of a soft tonal buzzing sort of noise. He also became aware with no small amount of alarm that the sound was coming from him. He vaguely willed himself to stop, and that seemed to do the trick, but not soon enough to stop Flynn from nearly silently choking on laughter, both his arms clutched around his newly healed midsection.

 

“You know,” He eventually wheezed, “I wouldn’t have worried so much about this, if I’d know being a demon was just going to turn you into a big cat.”

 

Issachar flushed in embarrassment and made to shove Flynn’s shoulder, but the motion ended up more a fond caress than anything. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

 

He did, but Issachar stayed awake for a while longer. He listened to the distant sounds of the house around them creaking and the wind howling outside. He took more immediate sensations as well, the soft bedding under them, the warmth Flynn radiated next to him, and soft purr he refused to acknowledge starting in his throat again. The he yawned, turn on his side, and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far, it means a lot to me!
> 
> I'm on tumblr at ancestrallizard.tumblr.com, feel free to check it out! I talk about smt and a bunch of other stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like smt in general, feel free to talk to me at my tumblr if you want! ancestrallizard.tumblr.com


End file.
